It's a Fire
by CardiffDoll
Summary: Sequel to "Late at Night". Steve x Natasha, so... Stasha.


Timeline: movieverse, directly after my story "Late at Night;" a year-ish post "Avengers."

Rating: T.

Pairings: Steve/Natasha.

Disclaimer: Obviously, we know who owns these characters and it's not me. If I did own them, we'd never get anything of substance done, so it's probably just as well. ;)

Author's notes: Unbeta'd, as usual. Includes a subtle nod to the X-Men, if you're looking for it... Xx, cd.

-.-.-.-.-

Unless she had to be somewhere, Natasha never used an alarm. Alarms bred routines, and routines bred habits. And habits were something Natasha avoided at all costs – it was a professional precaution she'd learnt years ago. She normally just allowed her eyes to drift open on their own, and today was no different. Blinking sleepily, she lingered in that peaceful space between asleep and awake, not coherent enough yet to worry about her duties for the day. With a yawn, she stretched luxuriously in the cool air of the bedroom, her toes curling and uncurling against the sheets as she rolled over – only to come face to face with Captain America himself.

Natasha started, the mental blankness of sleep giving way to surprise, one hand drawing the sheets up to her collarbone instinctively. Steve looked properly abashed, his hand coming up as if to steady her, but settling back awkwardly against the mattress as he backed out of the commitment to actually move his hand to meet her skin.

"I'm sorry, I… I wasn't…"

He let out a slow breath, the last vestiges of sleep obviously slowing his mental faculties.

"I didn't want to wake you."

Natasha laughed softly, blinking as she relaxed back against the pillow, her hand releasing its grip on the cotton sheet, remembering she was topless but not exactly worried about it. That was certainly a perk of life as a superhero: you always looked good naked. Steve, on the other hand, cared very much, and his cheeks flushed the slightest pink as he tactfully looked away, his focus resting very intently on the shape of his own legs beneath the duvet.

"Steve."

Natasha leaned over, brushing her lips against his shoulder as she murmured his name in greeting. The captain kept his eyes forward, a tense nod betraying his obvious discomfort.

"Tasha."

She laughed musically, shaking her head as she grabbed a pillow and held it to her chest, resting her chin against it as she looked up at him imploringly.

"Steve..."

This time, he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, visibly relaxing as he realised she'd covered herself a bit. As tight as it was, her Widow suit left plenty to the imagination, and Steve had certainly imagined a time or two. However, he was finding the reality of it all a bit overwhelming, and as he shifted to turn and face her, he noted that the sheet had slipped down to rest in the slight divot of her lower back. He'd seen that slope of skin dozens of times: the pool at the tower, the training room when they sparred... but not like this, in such a personal context.

She raised a hand, resting it against his bicep, fully remembering last night; she would have teacups to clean when she got out of bed.

"It bothers you."

It wasn't a question.

"Not bothers. I like it, I mean, you're..." The awkwardness fell away for just a moment as Steve found Natasha's eyes, his natural sincerity hitting her full force, "...you're first class."

Despite the anachronistic vocabulary, Natasha was flattered. The look in his eyes said it all.

"But..."

Or possibly not all, but enough. She shook her head, rumpled curls dusting her shoulders as her head moved. Her smile was easy and kind as it curved her lips.

"No, it's fine. I understand."

And she did. She'd lived the type of life that tended to imbue a person with patience, and this situation was no different. He obviously needed a bit of time, not just with her but with most new things, and she was more than happy to give it to him.

Steve was silent a moment, his hand reaching out in response, palm tentatively cupping her shoulder as he ghosted his thumb along the shadow of her collarbone. Natasha lay still, contented smile still gracing her lips as she waited, but his hand never moved. Taking care not to crowd him, she moved closer, the pillow still trapped mostly between them, and pressed her smile to the corner of his mouth.

This was something that Steve could handle. He hadn't quite figured out modern women - not that he'd ever figured out the women he'd grown up with, so he really thought the whole situation was a little hopeless - but Natasha was something else entirely. She was so odd about what she decided to share and with whom, completely comfortable with her near nudity around him but strangely protective of the nuances of her personality. He noticed that she'd put her book away while he was sleeping; its absence left the nightstand starkly bare. She was wearying and intriguing all in one, and he tilted slightly to capture her lips, happy to deal with her anachronisms.

More than happy.

The fingers of his free hand threaded into her hair, and it was like silk in his hand, lopsided from having been slept on and free of product. The slight frizz of her curls caught the light, lighting up her face in a way that seemed more telling than usual. He could have said a million things in that moment: how she terrified him, inspired him, encouraged him.

"Alright," was all he said. He wasn't big on deep conversations, which worked out fine, seeing as she wasn't big on personal details. But she would know what he meant, anyway. She always did.

Lazily, she raised a knowing eyebrow, sussing him out for the umpeenth time in their relationship.

"I'm glad we had this chat," she deadpanned, her smile not budging, nose bumping affectionately against his.

"Mhmm," he mused, fixated on trying to see life through her eyes, if even for a moment.

They stayed that way for a while, Steve propped up on one elbow, his hand tracing the road of her clavicle with a tender fingertip as Natasha peered up at him curiously, her chin resting on the pillow she cradled against her chest. Eventually, the want for breakfast won over, and Natasha pressed her lips to his once more, a sort of promise in her kiss. She wasn't cold, just cautious in so many ways.

"Might want to look away, Captain. I don't want to offend your sensibilities, but my closet is all the way across the room."

It wasn't a reprimand, the way she said it, but more of a gentle tease. Though she could play the part when the job called for it, Natasha was not a malicious woman, though Steve wouldn't have blamed her if she had been. As surreal as his own life was, hers was right up there with it; her quirks were justified, if unnecessary.

He watched her as long as he dared before he tore his eyes away, his last sight a glance of the deceivingly delicate curve of her lower back, wondering at how easy she was to love and how hard she fought against it. As confusing as it was, he knew that one day he'd be ready to take that leap, and one day she wouldn't be so terrified to let him.


End file.
